Once scattered atop the little table that is one of the few pieces of furniture in the Dead Man's room my plunder did not appear especially exciting. Because he was able to see the inside of my head, anyway, I admitted, "It seems to be mostly trash."

Having contemplated the take through our several viewpoints, Old Bones responded, You are correct, Garrett. The silver people did abandon what they considered to be waste.

How did he know?

Through exactly the same process you used to come to that identical conclusion, supplemented by experience and unlimited intellect. It is a pity, however, that neither of you can recall the exact circumstances of the kidnappers' final escape.

"A huge pity," I grumped. My headache remained on duty, totally devoted. Singe, though smitten harder at the time, had recovered completely already.

The Dead Man must've been more interested in events than he let on. When I started feeling sorry for myself and lusting after a beer he interfered with nature. He reached inside my head and did something that made the pain fade away. Some. Enough. Though a reminder remained in the background, eager to come back.

What can we tell from the kidnappers' trash? the Dead Man asked.

I couldn't tell a thing other than that they were no more fastidious than any other Karentine subject.

Singe sniffed each item yet again before carefully showing us her best imitation human shrug. From its look she'd practiced a lot. Ratpeople don't move like that normally.

She said, "This all smells very cold. Very sterile. There is no soul in it. There is no magic."

That was an interesting observation, considering what we'd seen and suffered. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Singe needed her confidence. And for all I really knew, she was right on the mark.

She might be indeed, Garrett.

I scowled his way. He was not supposed to eavesdrop on the inside of my head when I wasn't reporting.

I am not prying into your mind. I just know how you think. I believe that it is now time to interview Mr. Bic Gonlit. His place in all this appears to be anomalous. Though I do have several hypotheses about what could be transpiring. His testimony should tell me which of those I can reasonably discard.

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to do all the work, inviting him in?"

Perhaps because you are irrationally pessimistic. Your part will require very little work, Garrett. I will be the one forced to stretch himself to his limits after you have invested just a few minutes in rounding him up and bringing him here. Be sure you take your convincing stick.

"Never leave home without one." That's my partner. Like some kind of priest or professor, his vegetating is hard and honorable work. All my sweat and agony is barely worth a mention because what I do involves occasionally engaging a muscle.

Bic Gonlit had no intention of cooperating. Bic Gonlit could pick his dogs up and put them down when he was scared. Who'd have thought a little round guy with chubby, stubby legs could lead me on such a long chase?

Not me. Not before I lived it.

After several blocks I was glad the Dead Man had insisted on sending the Goddamn Parrot out to scout for me. By then it was obvious that Bic Gonlit could see in the dark. And I could not, which wasn't a major news flash. And the people of my neighborhood aren't rich enough to maintain adequate streetlamps.

The multicolored chicken did his part. He kept up a running lot of howling and cursing, some evidently adapted from the cant of old-time formal hunts. Highbrow and embarrassing. And, likely, everybody he woke up would assume that it was all my fault.

There'd be complaints. There'd be angry presentations. There'd be intemperate talk about chasing me out of the neighborhood. That would be followed by calmer heads appealing for reason. The older residents all know I share my place with a cranky dead Loghyr. An irritated cranky dead Loghyr can make life a lot more unpleasant for a lot of people for a long time. Why go looking for trouble?

I needed to stop playing around. I needed to put on a burst of speed that would nail the fat man.

I should've planned for this phase before I let everybody go home.

Just off the Arsenal High Street, a little my way from the brewery district, is a small remnant of old-time imperial TunFaire that wasn't consumed in the Great Fire. It's known as Prune Tastity for reasons nobody recalls anymore. Prune Tastity is a sort of museum of ancient times, all cramped-together buildings and covered alleyways barely wide enough to let the air circulate. Following the fire wider alleys and streets were mandated by law.

There is less disease in areas where the buildings are farther apart, too.

The wonder buzzard's shrieks told me my quarry was going to try to lose us both by ducking into Prune Tastity's tangle of covered alleyways.

I've been in there a few times. The place is a maze, at times rising five stories high. What Gonlit apparently didn't realize was that I was familiar enough with Prune Tastity to know that there're only a handful of entrances to the maze. He'd gone in the far side hoping I'd follow and get lost. If he meant to leave without running into me again he'd have to come out not far from where I stood listening to the Goddamn Parrot's progress report.

I got myself into position with minutes to spare. I used every second to get more wind back into my lungs. I needed my breathing under control if Gonlit wasn't going to hear me puffing for a block before he arrived.

I needn't have worried. Bic was puffing so hard himself that he couldn't have heard the ringing of the bell that's supposed to announce the end of the world. His head was down, his arms and legs were pumping, and he wasn't even making a fast walk anymore. But he was still moving. He sounded like he was going to expire if he didn't take a break and concentrate on his breathing.

I timed my move, caught his collar as he shuffled past. He made one feeble attempt to get away, then gave up. And I mean gave up completety. He just folded up on the street and refused to do anything but gasp for air.

Ten minutes later he was still curled up like a pillbug, daring me to make him do anything he didn't want to do. He seemed confident he knew enough about me to be sure I wouldn't kill him for being uncooperative.

Morley is right. I need to become less predictable. And I need to develop a more savage reputation.

Because of the Dead Man's reminder I had not left the house without my convincing stick, eighteen inches of oak with a pound of lead in its active end. It proved useful on this unfriendly night.

I tapped my new friend just below the kneecap on each leg, not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to turn his legs to water temporarily. I didn't want him able to put up much of a fight when I took his precious boots.

He understood before I got the first boot off. He started yelping. He called for help. He begged for mercy. The Goddamn Parrot came down and chimed in, carrying on loudly in several obviously nonhuman voices. Not that any witnesses were likely to drop their street sense in order to jump in and rescue any of us. That was not the way of the city.

"You sonofabitch, you want to keep your pretty boots, you'd better get real cooperative real sudden." I thumped Mr. Gonlit once atop each shoulder, briskly, not far from the sides of his neck.

Instantly, Bic began to have trouble lifting his arms.

The little man was tough in his way. He never stopped struggling—until I dragged the second boot off him. Then he went limp again. Without volunteering to make my life any easier.